


as above, so below

by aiIenzo



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 16:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10994514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo
Summary: All he remembers is pinpoints in time. The flash in the muzzle of his rifle, the dull throb in his shoulder from too much Widow kickback. Shouting directions, fire in his muscles, his legs screaming at him as he ran. Moments of laughter as adrenaline hit its peak; slamming him against a wall of shame afterwards, once he's holstering his weapon and wiping blood from his visor.(He believes in Reyes. Far more than he believes in the demons at his back.)





	as above, so below

**Author's Note:**

> The bastard love child of these two prompts: 
> 
> "How about Scott after his death and after being unable to save everyone on the archon's ship calls Reyes (as he does every night) and then has a serious mental breakdown? Reyes can only listen helplessly, since he's on a planet far away (he might ask SAM to make Scott feel as if he's hugging him to comfort him)" -anon  
> &  
> "Something about the number of people Scott has killed since being made Pathfinder? Maybe he doesn't have a number but SAM does and he asks SAM then talks with Reyes about it?" -wondermumbles
> 
> I felt as though the Archon thing has been done quite a bit, but I DID enjoy the thought of Scott having a complete breakdown. And wondermumbles gave me a prompt I absolutely adored, so naturally I combined the two of them to make something probably neither of them wanted. Hooray!

Scott's been awake for a solid 27 hours by the time he gets back to his quarters, limbs limp and strung out like his muscles had all but lost their elasticity. Voeld is a bright, hovering mass of potential outside his floor-to-ceiling window, but his usual wonderment is subdued by sheer exhaustion; his very soul feels hollow and muted. He's dried up and cracked, and if he looks hard enough at the expanse below them, he can almost see the fragile pieces of his exterior chipped away and thrown carelessly across the tundra, trailing across the planet like some whirlwind breadcrumb path that teases him with the location of his sanity.  
  
It had been a trying day, racked with disappointment. After finding one dead science team, their entrails still frozen on the stairway, they soon realized luck had abandoned Voeld to the untamed nature of the tundra. The scientists had never made it back to the safety of their lab before the eiroch attacked, brutally tearing them apart on their own doorstep. They tracked the creature for two hours until finally bearing down upon it with the desolate fury of a team unhinged by desperation, but not before Peebee’s shockwave had coupled with Scott's concussive shot and split the eiroch's underbelly open.  
  
They could do nothing but watch as bits of the science team spilled out across the wasteland.  
  
Cracked pieces of salarian armor that still had chunks of flesh stuck to the inside, soft and singed, fat bubbling from the static heat of biotics and incendiary rounds; long brown human hair clumped around broken and shredded fingers like bugs caught in a web, shimmering white bone poking through torn and dangling ligaments; fragments of undigested teeth and clothing, stained with what looked to be blue angaran blood, thick from sitting stagnant for days in the revolting cesspool of the animal’s stomach.

Peebee had turned away to vomit up their pitiful MRE lunch, and even Drack stayed quiet, the gritty sigh he allowed himself escaping silently beneath the hiss of chilled air.  
  
The day had only gotten worse from there. Local relations with angara we're a balancing scale, and all the bad news Scott was forced to deliver weighed them down considerably. It wasn't his fault things had gone wrong. But somehow, he was blamed for there ever being the opportunity for a crisis in the first place. He was always too late. Too hasty. Too graceless. Too heartless. Too empathetic. He was always too little by being extraordinarily too much.

  
Discouraged, they’d tracked down a group of kett, resolutely trying (and failing) to ignore the dead, frozen scout team beneath their feet atop the makeshift sniper’s nest. Ten dead. Twenty dead. He stayed the location and tried to pick off as many as he could from a distance, just to avoid losing himself in a frenzy of butchery and revolting _hate_ that would lead him to recklessness.  
  
But things would get personal regardless, and he'd end up feeling the satisfying slice of his omniblade through a kett’s chest cavity, the crunch of bone and gurgle of blood unable to bring back the dead. Meeting their eyes as they fell to their knees was almost enough, and he'd pour every ounce of vengeance and fury into his expression, if only ensure he’d haunt their afterlife with the image of his face contorted in rage.  
  
But when it was over, and the blood on the ground grew from warm to frozen, crystallizing to mirror the fragility of his resolve, his jaw would tighten. The scowl would vanish. The cold felt colder and the atmosphere compressed around him, warning him of his shattered psyche, but he ordered them on, determined. Overwhelmed. _Frantic_.  
  
Roekaar found them, and he was forced to shoot down angaran, some of whom were only confused, brainwashed, led astray by an extremist who had lost himself to his hostility of the unknown. Some had similar shades or markings to Jaal, and his heart would clench in fear when he’d hesitate at the resemblance, wondering if they were a relation. It was a passing thought he’d entertain as he littered their bodies with a shotgun blast, hoping Jaal would chose to forgive him, if his worries were founded. If he would ever forgive himself.  
  
If he even wanted to.  
  
The welcome back aboard the Tempest was strained, and no one tried to lighten the mood. The silence was heavy, a tangible and crippling dismay that connected them all, hardwired them together into something beyond family, something undeniable. They were half frozen, chilled to the core from snow and carnage, and Peebee's eyes were devoid of that curious fire that normally seemed to fill and embolden her.  
  
Cora and Gil met them in the cargo bay and took their weapons, offering to gut and clean them with a muted whisper, like speaking too loudly would break them of the little perseverance they had left. His team handed their weapons over, slippery with ice and blood. Murmured thanks were lost between them, compassion outdone by the rolling clouds of fatigue and misery.  
  
Scott had abandoned his armor in the cargo bay and skipped the inevitable reports he'd have to write to veer towards the shower, an urgency to wash the filth and rot from himself grinding against his very bones. His hands shook as he undressed and stepped under the hot spray, physical relief washing over him, even if his heart and mind remained tightly coiled, poised and ready to let him snap and collapse under the insurmountable weight of his own sins.  
  
Peebee joined him almost immediately, stripped bare of both her clothing and defenses, and Scott only needed one look at her twisted expression before he pulled her against him, letting her avoid the awkward apologies and requests that threatened to slip clumsily from her quivering lips. She melted into him and sobbed into the crook of his shoulder, ugly and despondent, her cries hidden from the crew under the harsh spray of water. Her body shook violently as she broke, completely unraveled. Scott willed himself to quell the trembling of his own nerves and remain strong, exterior pulled together just enough to hide the cracks so that she could sap some of his last remaining strength for herself.  
  
But now, he was alone in his quarters, and there was a calm in the air around him, even if his pulse was skyrocketing. It tested his resolve. All of his senses were on alert, defensive and daunting.  
  
“Nothing like scrubbing off the blood of three different species,” he mumbled to SAM, if just to distract himself from the strange, startling itch under his skin.  
  
“I detected the remains of five different species on your armor before we returned to the Tempest, Pathfinder,” SAM corrected, a hint of kindness in his generated output, as though mathematical specifics could offer comfort. “Human, salarian, angaran, turian, and asari blood were all present.”  
  
Scott’s stomach lurched, the beginnings of a heady, surging wave hidden deep within the sea of his discontent. He doesn't remember any turians. Fuck, he couldn't even remember any asari. He can recall the exile camp, filled with Nexus species that managed to cohabitate despite their unfavorable morals, but that had been days ago, hadn't it? How long had he been on Voeld?  
  
How long had he been awake?  
  
All he remembers is pinpoints in time. The flash in the muzzle of his rifle, the dull throb in his shoulder from too much Widow kickback. Shouting directions, fire in his muscles, his legs screaming at him as he ran. Moments of laughter as adrenaline hit its peak; slamming him against a wall of shame afterwards, once he's holstering his weapon and wiping blood from his visor.  
  
He chuckles nervously, suddenly both very thankful that SAM is with him, yet also alarmed at the constant influx of reminders. His skin is _crawling_ in discontent. His insides are tiny convulsions that hint forebodingly towards the beginnings of shock, and his blood feels like needles in his veins.  
  
“Well, guess I missed examining a few of the bodies. No small feat though, right? There had to have been at least twenty of them today. We didn't need all that intel.”  
  
“Forty-seven,” SAM chirps dutifully, and Scott lets out a small exhale of surprise, lurching through another wave that shifts his guts into something undefinable.  
  
“Forty-seven?” He repeats, and the number seems to float out of his mouth and through the air, hardly substantial in its own right. It's a familiarity he can't place; a memory he can't pin down.  
  
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, gripping the desk in front of him for stability as his vision teeters slightly. “Just today?”  
  
“Yes, Pathfinder.”  
  
He tries not to close his eyes. He can see so many expressions clearly, most of them spoiled with aggression and rage, but a few eyes of the now deceased had held surprise, or worse, remorse. Only moments away from realizing their foolishness and throwing down their weapons in surrender. Scott couldn't afford the risk. Part of him hadn't cared.  
  
A single moment in time; forty-seven times. Forty-seven times today he'd created a ripple of anguish and despair, all under the guise of vitality and absolute, plausible deniability.  
  
Greater good bullshit that Tann and Addison could lovingly roll in sugar and declare a threat to stability. He'd be a goddamn hero.  
  
Forty-seven times over.  
  
A thought occurred as quickly as the bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it down and croaked out his question.  
  
“SAM, how many people have I killed since I was made Pathfinder?”  
  
SAM hesitates slightly, either from calculation, or reassessing whether it's a question he should respond to. He knows that SAM won't refuse him an answer, but for an indefinite moment, Scott grips tightly and _hopes_ that he will. Hopes that he'll never have to know, and he can justify his actions by blaming a stubborn AI and involuntary ignorance.  
  
Scott prods him, determination winning out over comfort and peace of mind. Again.  
  
“SAM? How many?”  
  
“Six hundred and eighty, Pathfinder.”  
  
The answer is quick, so SAM had merely been hesitating, knowing full well it was an irresponsible question and that Scott wouldn't be able to handle the answer.  
  
SAM is right, of course. He always is.  
  
Scott's world tilts. Another wave, deep inside him, like his very core is cracking and sending shockwaves through his trembling body until it is an all-encompassing incentive for his inevitable disintegration from the world. Those first swells are nearing their crest, growing larger and faster the closer they come to breaking across his shore, and he knows he's starting to panic.  
  
In the moment, he had seen only targets, threats. Now, he only sees _people_. Hundreds of them. Wives, husbands, friends and lovers and siblings and entirely _living, breathing_ people with aspirations for Heleus that mirrored his own. They'd all shared a common dream once, united in their attempt to colonize and progress. They had all come here together, and yet now, Scott reassures the half on the Nexus with a silver tongue and unprecedented outposts, yet leaves the other half bleeding out in the scorching heat of Elaadan, stripped of the essentials the Initiative desperately needs, dignity be damned.  
  
There's a sharp stab of disgust in his chest that's slowly pumping through his veins, sending a chill down his limbs. Waves waves _waves_. Everything is waves and they’re too big. Too fast. Too strong.  
  
“Pathfinder...heart rate is spiking. You're... verge of a panic....Pathfinder...?”  
  
SAM fades out, and he can hear the telltale static of a comm, but it's beyond his recognition, hovering in the haze of spiraling vertigo and seizing muscles. He knows SAM is still speaking, but it's no more distinguishable than the wonky movement of the world around him, a cluttering of mismatched shapes that bend and arch their way through the space he occupies, making each breath he takes overbearing and ineffective. C-SEC had taught him to deal with this in training, how to master the fallout of inevitable firefights with batarians at the relays, but it was woefully inadequate preparation for what he had needed to do as Pathfinder.  
  
_Forty-seven._  
  
The first wave is crashing, and he can't stop it. It consumes him. This is how he'll die, he's assured of it; ended by the crippling reminder of the things he did to stay alive. The irony is thick and heavy, rolling towards him with the slow, smug decency of something so entirely self-assured in its dominance.  
  
_Six hundred and eighty._  
  
“Scott!”  
  
_That_ voice filters through his omni-tool, but Scott is immobile, frozen in his position, quaking with fear and overwhelmed with reality as he focuses on the white-fingered grip he retains on his desk. His muscles are locked. It's coming. Everything is coming for him.  
  
“Scott, what--”  
  
“Scott is experiencing a panic attack, Mr. Vidal,” SAM interrupts, and he seems almost urgent. “I can override his neural processors and calm him--”  
  
“No.”  
  
He hears Reyes interrupt, but can't fathom what it means through the crashing of another wave that sends silent tears spilling from his unblinking eyes as he trembles his way through his own paranoia. He can't turn around - his sins are behind him, pressing against his skull and just _waiting_ for him to loosen his body just enough to slice into him. They're coming for him. He's going to die here.  
  
“...needs to… just let it pass, SAM. Let him get through it.”  
  
SAM remains quiet, but Scott doesn't focus on it. He doesn't focus on _how_ Reyes got on his comm channel. He doesn't focus on the magnitude of helplessness that courses through him, like he was merely a conductor for the desperation the galaxy is burdened by. No, he focuses on the only thing that makes any goddamn fucking sense.  
  
_“Just breathe, Scott. It'll pass.”_  
  
His muscles are protesting against their overuse, having been relaxed into a sense of repair and calm during the shower, only to be betrayed as he tightens and clenches against the obstruction to his self control.  
  
Reyes keeps speaking to him, his litany of reasoning just compelling enough to tear a small portion of Scott's attention away from the fear, away from the abstract horror that is everything and nothing, yet entirely debilitating in its ambiguous omnipotence. There is nothing but terror. Pure and raw.  
  
“It's only us. Nothing in this room is going to hurt you. Calm your breathing and believe what I say, the rest will follow.”  
  
There is no promise of future safety, of flowery bullshit about peace and a better world, because Reyes knows Scott will latch onto the lie and use it to propel himself into a complete breakdown, comprised of every moment his life has been in the hands of anyone else’s but his own. It will only reinforce the guilt he carries alongside the safety of his own crew, knowing they will follow him boldly into death, if only given the instruction. Reyes knows that everything Scott  _wants_ to hear will only accelerate his descent.  
  
Instead, he offers reassurance. Practicality.  
  
“We're here, Scott, but you have to come down on your own. You're strong. You can beat this.”  
  
“They're _here_ ,” Scott grounds out through clenched teeth, unable to move his mouth to properly form the words he needs to express. “Reyes, so many dead, I can _see_ them--”  
  
“No one is here, Scott--”  
  
“They'll tear apart the crew. Suvi and Kallo and-- I can _feel_ them around me. They're going to kill us all--”  
  
“ _Scott_.” Reyes voice is commanding, firmly requesting for his attention, and Scott takes in a deep shuddering breath that sends streaks of saline tears down his cheeks.  
  
“Scott, listen to me. This is _your_ ship, and nothing gets in here without SAM knowing about it. Suvi, Kallo, Cora, they're all fine. No one is in this room with you except myself and SAM, and we're not leaving you. Just breathe. Your demons are your own. No others.”  
  
Scott stares at his hands, white knuckled and trembling, and wills himself to breathe. He can still feel the calamitous _something_ behind him, imposing and ominous, but he steadies his resolve, struggling and faltering to regain his control and execute a proper inhale and exhale.  
  
It works, for a moment, until he foolishly entertains the idea of what would happen when the presence finally grips him, when he lets the nightmare and terror in and it wants _penance_ \--  
  
“Reyes--!" 

It's nearly a sob, a cry for help and he grits his teeth against his complete abandon of dignity. He can't get a grip. He's spiraling.  

“There is nothing there, Scott,” Reyes assures him quickly, albeit not desperately. He keeps his voice calm, a comfort wrapped intuitively within the slip of accent that Scott has come to associate with safety. Reyes comes with the guarantee of Scott's best interests, even if his process is sketchy and unorthodox. Scott doesn't have to understand it to trust it. He trusts the outcome, the proof he’s helped shape; the resolutions that were promised and delivered.

He  _believes_ in Reyes. Far more than he believes in the demons at his back. 

“Only you. Relax.”  
  
Scott finally listens, letting Reyes' voice and reassurance tame the swelling of the sea inside of him, quelling any future waves as the final ones crest and break, lapping at the surface of his panic, surging through the cracks but not quite breaking down the walls.  
  
The muscles in his back loosen first, sore and filled with the fiery pain of overexertion. It's a ripple effect, and soon his tense shoulders slacken, his arms weaken, and his painful grip on the table is relinquished, his fingers throbbing at the assault he bore against them. He breathes deeply, still shuddering through it, but in _control_ , and lets Reyes’ calm demeanor shed the terror from his body, stripping him of that final layer of tension he never quite took off when he reboarded.  
  
It’s four solid minutes before he can stand straight again, lungs and heart steady enough to turn and face the empty room behind him, no longer surprised that forces beyond his comprehension aren't there to deliver his retribution. Everything is silent save the reassuring hum of the ship around him, a calm that he devours, gently trying to patch up the pieces that were ripped from him with the familiarity only his ship could offer.  
  
That, and--  
  
“Reyes?”  
  
“I’m here.”  
  
He exhales quietly, willing his heart rate to calm completely as he tries to find _himself_ again.

“Thank you. I…”  
  
But Reyes cuts him off, and damn if Scott can't hear the clandestine smile from twelve systems over.  
  
“Don't. It's part of the job description, after all.”  
  
The tight lines of Scott's mouth fade into something softer as he asks, “Yours, or mine?”  
  
Reyes scoffs, a twinge of that elitism showing through, but Scott’s grateful for the distraction, for the small reminder that Reyes is just as human as anyone else, prone to the same idiosyncrasies that either draw people in or push them away.  
  
“Ryder, if people knew what being Pathfinder actually meant, outside of the ceremonies and PG space adventures, no one would sign up. You're rewriting the job description on the daily. Additionally, you should really consider asking for a raise in your hazard pay.”  
  
Scott smiles, running his hand lazily over his face to wipe away the faint traces of tears before throwing himself unceremoniously across the couch.  
  
“I fail to see how it’s your job, though,” he sighs, wincing slightly at his shredded muscles.   
  
Reyes huffs a quiet laugh. “Well, you haven’t been to Kadara in over a month. I was calling to put in a formal complaint. Good timing, no?”  
  
Scott closes his eyes and rests his head against the firm cushion beneath him, letting exhaustion overtake him.

“After all this time, Reyes, and you still want to try and lie to me. You should know better. ...SAM?”  
  
“I am here, Pathfinder,” SAM answers immediately, but it somehow sounds muted. Dismayed. Like a child on the verge of being scolded.  
  
“Why’d you call him, SAM?”  
  
SAM hesitates, and Scott crooks a smile at the thought of rendering a VI uncomfortable. Reyes remains silent after being called out for his unnecessary protection of Scott's modesty, since Scott’s pretty sure they've both embraced what SAM’s reasoning will be. Acknowledging the emotion and hearing it spoken aloud are two highly different things though, and after such a private, invasive moment, Scott needs the reassurance that their relationship is real enough for even SAM to perceive it.  
  
After a heartbeat of silence, SAM begins his explanation, winded and detailed, as though he has to validate himself.  
  
“It seemed unwise to call a crew member to assist you once you ceased responding to me, and I cannot alter your body without express permission, or unless it’s deemed to be life-threatening. You are strong-willed, and a leader. For your crew to see you in that state would plummet morale, and I couldn’t risk your resolve to be questioned. You would have struggled to forgive me. Reyes seemed the next logical step, considering your romantic entanglements.”  
  
Scott laughed quietly to himself, forcing his eyes open to peer skeptically towards SAM’s physical manifestation that Scott retained in his quarters, as though he could read some form of expression from the hologram.  
  
“Wait,” Reyes interrupts, sounding legitimately surprised. “SAM, does that mean you...trusted me? To make decisions on Scott’s behalf? The first thing you did was ask me for permission to override his neural...whatever.”  
  
“Respectfully, Mr. Vidal, Scott has entrusted you to make decisions on his behalf since we’ve departed Kadara. Furthermore, Scott’s blood pressure and heart rate scores have been worryingly elevated since becoming Pathfinder, and a mental breakdown of some form was ultimately unavoidable. However, when Scott is within your presence, his adrenaline and cortisol levels dip dramatically, and his body stabilizes itself. Logically, you were the best company during his emotional vulnerability.”  
  
Scott’s neck is red from embarrassment, and he’s way, _way_ too tired for this shit.  
  
“Well, you’ve got the diary part down, SAM. Ever think of incorporating a lock and key?”  
  
Reyes snorts in laughter, and Scott smiles, despite himself. He did ask, after all. It was common knowledge by now (of _course_ it was), but hearing how strongly Reyes affected him, especially on a physical level that had nothing to do with arousal, well, it was comforting. A novelty, yes, but still comforting. Safety wasn’t something he could come by easily, and to have found it was otherworldly in a way he had never known. He hummed quietly, still reeling over the contrast of dealing with two drastically different emotions in such a short span of time.  
  
“Hey, Reyes? As funny as you think that is, could you do me a favor and _not_ tell the Charlatan? I don’t want him thinking his associates are, what was it? ‘Emotionally vulnerable’?”  
  
Reyes chuckles, a sound that always sends shivers up Scott’s spine, and this time is no different. _Fuck_ he misses Reyes. He misses Kadara, and all the random, happenchance bullshit that comes with it. He misses the _casualty_ of it all. He misses the small beauties of the world, like sunsets that don’t remind him of bloody mornings. He’s so goddamn tired, in more ways than one, and he’s terrified of losing himself.  
  
“I wouldn’t worry too much; rumor has it the Charlatan can hardly focus now that a certain Pathfinder has been absent. It’s almost embarrassing,” Reyes teases, his voice nothing but honey and mischief. “Why, Keema told me just the other day that she’s never seen someone so wholly engrossed by another human being. Apparently, the pining is rather annoying.”  
  
“Shame on him,” Scott grins, relaxing further into the couch, the need for sleep heavy and demanding against the weariness in his bones.  
  
Somehow, Reyes can hear the exhaustion in Scott’s voice, the soft sigh that trails the edges of his words, because his tone immediately takes on a slightly professional air.  
  
“SAM?”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Vidal?”  
  
“I just recovered a crate of black market weapons and mods that’ll undoubtedly be of good use for your Pathfinder team. I’m putting in a formal request for the Tempest to dock at Kadara port as soon as possible, so that your crew can have first priority access.”  
  
“Request has been formally addressed and sent to the front of the queue, Mr. Vidal.”  
  
“Excellent,” Reyes confirms, before turning his attention to Scott, who’s smirking softly to himself, his heart fluttering in ways it hasn't done since he was sixteen. “Now, _Pathfinder_ , get your ass in bed.”  
  
Scott grumbles out something between a curse and whine in response, nothing but dead weight flopped across the cushions of the couch.  
  
“Seriously?" Reyes scoffs, wholly unimpressed. "I can’t see you, but I know what you’re doing.”  
  
“Bet,” Scott challenges childishly.  
  
“Fine. You’re sprawled across the couch, head bent back at a ridiculous angle, with your legs spread. And as inviting of a picture that is, you’re fucking ragged, and you need some proper rest. Especially before you get here.”  
  
Scott hesitates, knowing he should bid Reyes farewell, _knowing_ that they’ll be docking in Kadara within the week, but he’s not quite ready to dismiss the sanctuary that this minuscule privacy with Reyes grants him. He’s not ready to lie in bed and listen to the near silent hum of the ship, waiting for those demons to drill holes into the recesses of his mind again and leave him nothing but a useless mess of anxiety and trepidation.  
  
Reyes sees through his silence though, as he always does. It’s a mercenary tactic, a skill learned through trial and error, shady business deals, and an exceeding amount of luck, but Scott hardly minds that such a morally questionable artistry is used to translate all the things to Reyes that Scott can’t bear to say. Reyes is a sinner and saint, woven beautiful together to create something unique.  
  
Something treasured.  
  
“Hope you don’t mind if I stay on the comm for a bit. You wouldn’t believe the shit that Umi dragged me into today…”  
  
Scott sighs gratefully, and he knows that Reyes _gets_ it. As the smuggler recounts his day with an enthusiasm that can’t possibly be anything but fabricated, Scott listens, pulling himself from the couch and dragging his feet feebly to the comfort of his empty bed.  
  
“...and I had _told_ her that Biti was trouble, especially after that mess she got herself into with that Salarian that runs the apartment complex, but…”  
  
Scott collapses atop the mattress, weighing the pros and cons of falling asleep here, half-dangled across the bed and waking with an even more severe backache than he was likely to have already, before deciding to push himself up towards the pillows, groaning slightly for dramatics as he lays down on his side, utterly spent.  
  
“...In the end of it all, I had to buy out the contact she had stupidly agreed to, but the plus side is, I’ve got a new assistant. She doesn’t know who I am, obviously, but she’s handy for keeping records. I’m not too worried about sabotage, since she’s so damn grateful to be out of Krogan hands.”  
  
Scott hums in appreciation, the feather down beneath his head an untold and under-appreciated luxury. There’s a stillness now, a short silence that speaks volumes between them; a realization that’s held them close, despite the distance. They don't need to say it aloud to acknowledge it.   
  
“Scott?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Let me lay with you.”  
  
Scott grins foolishly, because Reyes is such a sap for shit like this, but Scott’s just as guilty for indulging him. He makes a strange noise in his throat, words failing him in his exhaustion, but Reyes already knew he wouldn't be denied.  
  
“SAM? Help me out.”  
  
“Of course, Mr. Vidal.”  
  
And within seconds, there’s a heat spreading across Scott’s back, rising up slowly to cradle against the back of his neck and tapering off down towards his thighs. His exposed arm feels warmer, and he knows it’s only SAM, raising his body temperature in certain places, managing the cool down in others, but he lets himself be taken by the charade, buying in to the illusion that Reyes is pressed against his back, arm gently covering his in an embrace he gets to feel all too infrequently. It’s captivating, and he relaxes into it immediately, completely spent and sated.  
  
“You’re a stronger man than I,” Reyes admits softly, after another quiet moment filled with silent endearments has passed. His voice is clear as day over the comm despite the lowered volume. “But we are all vulnerable. If only you knew how many times I’ve broken in your absence, terrified that I’ve lost you, digging through off-world reports with this horrible clench in my gut that I’ll see your name among the deceased...”

Reyes sighs, and the helplessness bleeds through his voice. “We are only as strong as we pretend to be, and Scott… god, you make me so weak. I am both blessed and cursed to be with you, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. You are... _everything_. Sleep well, mi querida. I’ll see you soon.”  
  
In Kadara, Reyes waits patiently for a response, but Scott’s gentle exhales across the line are the only answer he receives. Exhaustion had overruled. Reyes smiles to himself, topping off his glass of whiskey and reaching forlornly for the mass of communications and discrepancies that he’s well behind on resolving.  
  
If he leaves the comm on for the next few hours while he works, listening to the soft sound of Scott’s breathing just to assure himself that the man he loves is unmistakably _alive_ , well, that’s no one’s business but theirs.


End file.
